


These Skies Are Breaking

by in_the_bottle



Series: Brothers [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock/Cabin Pressure - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_the_bottle/pseuds/in_the_bottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Danger, leaving everything behind. Yes, I heard." Martin replied. "Sherlock, you're my brother, of course I would help. Mycroft is doing his part, and I'll do my part."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Skies Are Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> This is an answer to [this prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/1249.html?thread=2100193#t2100193). The plot bunny just hit me in between my eyes when I read the prompt, and this fic basically took over my brain and wrote itself in 5 days. Many thanks to [](http://sarlania.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sarlania**](http://sarlania.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta and her brother for technical consultation re:planes and flight related stuff. Anything else I got wrong in here is purely my own fault. Title is taken from the song "One of a Kind" by Placebo.
> 
>  _Disclaimer:_ Neither Sherlock nor Cabin Pressure belong to me. Suing me won't help since I'm not making any money out of this. Just some fun.  
>  _Warning:_ Death of minor character(s), CP spoilers for s3 ep: St. Petersburg  
> 

  


  
  


[Click here for full size version](http://itb4.theoncomingstorm.org/art/sh/breakingv2.jpg)

  


Martin wasn't sure what exactly it was that woke him. If anyone ever asked, he would say that it was probably some intangible tension in the air, something that had silently screamed "wrong!" loud enough to wake him.

The small window in his attic barely let in enough of the street light for Martin to be able to make out a somewhat familiar figure hunched over by the foot of his bed.

"Sherlock?" Martin was immediately awake. With their lives the way they were (Martin either flying all over the world or busy picking up other people's furniture, and Sherlock busy chasing criminals all over London), Martin had not actually seen his half-brother in a few years, though they do text each other quite frequently. The moment Martin turned on the small bedside lamp, it was evident that something was wrong. Sherlock's left arm was in a sling and there were signs of various cuts and bruises on his face.

"What happened to you?" Martin asked, alarmed at Sherlock's injuries. "Do you need to go to the hospital? No wait, of course you've been to the hospital, you've got a sling. Are you ok?"

"Martin...."

It was completely unlike Sherlock to be this hesitant.

"What is it? What happened?"

"I need a favour," Sherlock said.

"Of course," Martin replied. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had asked him for a favour and still have fingers left over.

"I wouldn't be so quick to agree," Sherlock replied. "It's a rather big favour."

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"I – " Sherlock hesitated, which made Martin more nervous.

"Sherlock?"

"I need you to help me capture an international criminal mastermind."

Martin blinked. Surely he must have heard it wrong? "What? Me? What? How?" Why would Sherlock, of all people need _his_ help? Martin was nowhere as smart as Sherlock or as resourceful. He wasn't even a proper pilot for God's sake, just a part time removalist with a fancy hobby.

Sherlock winced halfway through an attempt to make a face at Martin's reaction.

"He's got various bases of operations all over the world," Shelock explained. "To shut him down, I need to be able to get in and out of the countries he operates in without being recognised. With the extensive network at his disposal, it's too risky to fly commercially.

"Mycroft's organised a private jet and under the cover of being a small chartered airline, we can get in and out without problems. It's going to be dangerous and I really don't want to risk your life, but I can't trust anyone else to fly it."

There was something Sherlock hadn't told him, Martin knew his older brother well enough to tell when he was withholding information. "What else?"

"It could take months, even years before I'm able to track him down."

"And?"

"And to the rest of the world, Sherlock Holmes is dead."

* * *

When Martin was four, he flew in an aeroplane for the first time. All the stewardess were nice to him and even let him visit the flight deck where the pilots showed him how it all worked. When all the buttons lit up, Martin wanted to be an aeroplane more than anything else in the world.

At the end of the trip, he also learned that his Daddy wasn't his real Daddy (his real Daddy's name was Siger Holmes) and he had two older half brothers, Sherlock, who was six, and Mycroft who was really big and didn't have much time for him or Sherlock. Martin did not know what the difference is between a brother and a half-brother, but he figured they were pretty much the same except Sherlock and Mycroft lived elsewhere most of the year.

Sherlock was unlike any other older boy that Martin knew, but he didn't really know that many older boys. The few he saw at the playground didn't really count because they weren't his friends and were quite often really mean to the girls and the smaller kids. Martin didn't like them as much as he liked Sherlock.

Martin couldn't really tell whether Sherlock liked him or not, but Sherlock didn't mind when Martin told him about the aeroplane and the visit to the flight deck, and he even played the violin for Martin.

Sherlock had tried to show Martin how to play the violin, but Martin's fingers were too clumsy and he never really got the hang of it. Besides, he'd much rather listen to Sherlock play.

Martin also discovered that he liked it when Sherlock spoke to him. The way he spoke was unlike anyone else Martin knew. It sounded a bit like Mummy but better; everything was gentler and more polite. Mycroft, Father, and Aunt Ana sounded like that too, so instead of having Sherlock teach him to play the violin, he asked him to teach him to speak the way everyone at the Holmes' household spoke.

That summer, Martin spent his entire time at the Holmes estate following Sherlock around and generally having the time of his life exploring the grounds with Sherlock.

He stayed with Sherlock, Mycroft, Father and Aunt Ana most summers. Unless Daddy had plans for the summer then Martin would spend a week or two with his other family and the rest with Daddy and Mummy.

"I want to be an aeroplane when I grow up," Martin declared one day when he was six. He was in Sherlock's room and they were sitting on Sherlock's bed looking through some of Mycroft's old textbooks about chemicals. Martin wasn't sure what 'chemicals' were, but Sherlock seemed to understand it all perfectly well.

"You can't be an aeroplane," Sherlock said, flipping through the pages.

"Why not?"

"An aeroplane is a thing. You're not a thing. You're a person, ergo you can't be an aeroplane." Sherlock explained, finally settling on a page and began to read.

"Oh," said Martin, looking upside down at what Sherlock was reading. He couldn't make sense of the words upside down, but there were pictures of various coloured liquids being poured into a big tumbler on top of an open flame. Martin frowned and sat back on his haunches, looking at Sherlock. "If I can't be an aeroplane, can I be an airline pilot then?"

"Of course," Sherlock looked up from the book. "You're my little brother, you can be anything you want."

* * *

"What do you mean dead? How could you be dead? You're here! You can't be here if you're dead!" Martin would've been yelling if not for fear of waking up the rest of the house.

"I didn't say I was dead, obviously I'm not. I said the rest of the world thinks I'm dead. Except for Mycroft, and now you."

"Even Doctor Watson?" Martin asked. If the texts he'd been getting from Sherlock in the last ten months were anything to go by, his brother and the doctor has developed a close relationship, which was almost unheard of for Sherlock. That's not even taking into account what he read on Sherlock's website and Doctor Watson's blog.

"Especially John." Sherlock said, standing up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed, looking out the small window towards the street below.

The way Sherlock said the name, the only time Martin had ever heard that particular tone was when.... "Oh my god, you're in love with him!" Martin blurted before his brain could even process what exactly he was saying.

The speed at which Sherlock spun around to stare at Martin only served to confirm the truth of Martin's words.

"That person you're chasing, he did something to you didn't he? You and Doctor Watson, and now you're pretending to be dead to protect him." Martin didn't even know how he knew, just that this must be what had happened. He may not be the world's only consulting detective, or be smart enough to hold some secret shadowy position with the British government, but he knows Sherlock.

"Did you tell him?" Martin asked when Sherlock didn't say anything.

"That would defeat the purpose of pretending to be dead, wouldn't it?"

"Not that, you idiot! That you love him!"

Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic sigh and the silence that followed was enough of an answer for Martin.

 _Poor Doctor Watson_ , Martin couldn't help but think. He would definitely like to meet this John Watson once whatever this thing Sherlock is in the middle of is dealt with. He must be an extraordinary man for Sherlock to fall for him.

"Martin, this really isn't the time to talk about John. I need you to consider my request carefully."

"Of course I'll help."

"You're not supposed to agree this readily. It'll be dangerous. It'll require you to leave everything and everyone you know behind, your entire life here in Britain. It's not something to decide on a whim."

"Do you want me to say no?" Martin asked, suddenly uncertain.

It would be dangerous, like Sherlock said, but it hadn't even occur to him to refuse. Yet why should Sherlock trust him with something so important? He couldn't even find a paid job as a pilot, and what Sherlock was suggesting, it meant that he would essentially be piloting the plane alone. He knew he had the qualifications for it, but what if something goes wrong? There won't be a Douglas to get him out of trouble. Could he do it?

"No, of course not!" Sherlock sounded frustrated.

"I'll do it." Yes, for Sherlock's sake, he could do it. "I mean, I'll miss Carolyn and Arthur, and I suppose Douglas as well, and would like to be able to at least say goodbye to them. But given the state you're in and the fact that you broke into the house in the middle of the night, I'm assuming that's not going to be possible. I take it that Mycroft would be taking care of everything here?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's all settled then," Martin hoped that he had made the right decision. He didn't want to let Sherlock down.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Danger, leaving everything behind. Yes, I heard." Martin replied. "Sherlock, you're my brother, of course I would help. Mycroft is doing his part, and I'll do my part."

Martin was glad to see a small smile forming at the corner of Sherlock's lips. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

* * *

No normal child could possibly work out the complexities of the relationships that Martin Aldrich Holmes-Crieff (or just Martin Crieff in the official documents) has with his families. Which was why Martin was nine before he managed to sort it all out in his own head.

Sort of.

Sherlock and Mycroft were his half brothers. Sherlock was two years older than Martin and Mycroft was nine years older. They had the same father, but different mothers. According to his mum, Martin was a bit of an accident after some sort of experiment involving his mum, his father, Aunt Ana (whose full name he later learnt was Anastasie Valois Holmes, "She's half French, you see," his mum had said) and a bedroom. Martin still wasn't quite sure what that all meant.

The man Martin called Dad was mum's husband. Mum met him when she was three months pregnant with Martin, they fell stupidly in love, and married just before Martin was born. Dad decided to adopt him and raise him as his own.

Then there was Simon and Caitlyn, who were his half bother and half-sister. Mum was their real Mum, and Dad was their real Dad. Simon was a year younger than Martin and Caitlyn three years younger.

As such, Martin had the rather unique position of being the youngest and the oldest at the same time. Sometimes, when he wasn't dreaming about being an airline pilot, he wondered if this was how it might feel to travel in time.

For about two days, Martin thought he might want to be Doctor Who, just to see if time travel really felt like that.

"Why would you want to be a fictional character?" Sherlock had asked even as he crawled beneath Mycroft's bed in search of sweets.

"It looks fun, traveling through time and space, having adventures." Martin shrugged.

"Ha! I knew it!" cried Sherlock as he crawled out from underneath Mycroft's bed with a bag of chocolates in his hands. He looked up at Martin from his position at the floor and frowned. "Time travel isn't possible. Its just stories made up to entertain the mindless mass. Being an airline pilot is a much better choice."

"You think so?" Martin wasn't so sure. Being a time lord seemed awfully fun.

"Of course I do. Being an airline pilot is more realistic, and you will still be flying all over the world."

What Sherlock said made sense. He was old enough to know that not everything on the telly was real, and if Sherlock said time travel wasn't possible, then Martin believed him. Sherlock was good at science, he would know. "Ok. I'll be an airline pilot then. A captain even."

Sherlock seemed satisfied by his answer and continued explaining to Martin his experimental plans with the stash of chocolate he found underneath Mycroft's bed.

"Wouldn't Mycroft be mad that you took his chocolates?" Martin asked.

"It's for science," Sherlock replied, and that was all the explanation that was required, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

In the end, they conclusively proved that it took 34 seconds for the first ant to appear after dropping a piece of chocolate on the ground. Much to Sherlock's disappointment, neither of them could make out exactly how many ants it took to carry off a rather large chunk of Belgium's finest. They settled on 'a lot'.

Contrary to Sherlock's claim, Mycroft was quite upset when he found out his chocolates were missing.

"Sorry," Martin had apologised. If he had knew Mycroft would be this upset, he would never have gone along with Sherlock's plan.

Mycroft let out a sigh and ruffled Martin's hair. "It's not your fault. Sherlock's the one responsible."

And that was the end of that.

* * *

Sherlock watched in silence as Martin quickly typed out a letter of resignation and emailed it off to his employer. Sherlock really didn't see the point of it considering the fact that Martin wasn't even being paid, so he was technically a volunteer who could walk off any time. But despite Sherlock's reassurance that Mycroft would take care of things, Martin insisted on sending something himself.

"I can't just disappear without saying anything. I owe Carolyn at least an email if not a phone call. Besides, Arthur would be really disappointed if I didn't even say goodbye."

Conscientious and considerate to a fault, that was Martin. It was no wonder everyone tried to take advantage of him. Despite a lifetime of Sherlock trying to break Martin out of the habit of putting others before himself, it never seemed to stick.

"I'm not like you Sherlock," Martin had said to him once. "I can't just not care about what people think."

A car was already waiting outside by the time Martin finished packing. Clothes and toiletries mostly, and a familiar looking leather bound diary - Sherlock's present to Martin for his birthday two years ago.

"If Doctor Watson's not going to be recording your adventures, I think someone should at least try to do what he would've done if he was here with you." Martin answered Sherlock's unvoiced question.

Sherlock couldn't help the wave of sadness that washed over him at the sound of John's name.

It was for the best. Sherlock will not allow anyone to use John against him ever again. Sherlock would do _anything_ to protect John, even if it meant hurting him in the short term.

It was for the best.

* * *

Martin wasn't really surprised to find Mycroft in the car waiting for them and he couldn't help rolling his eyes at the questioning look Mycroft gave him.

"Yes, I'm sure!" He may not be anywhere near as fluent as Sherlock and Mycroft were in the almost telepathic way they communicated, but he was still a Holmes. Though Mycroft's reaction really didn't do much for Martin's self-confidence.

Mycroft let out a sigh and handed him a thick envelope, which he produced seemingly out of nowhere. Sherlock had a matching envelope of his own which contained, among other things, three passports.

Martin opened his envelope to find a stack of official documents within it, his eyes widened in shock as he saw his name on the owner's certificate for an Embraer Phenom 300, registration G-PTOM, trading as Pegasus Air.

"Pegasus Air, much nicer than Icarus Removals, isn't it?"

"You can blame Sherlock for suggesting that name."

"It was funny," Sherlock protested.

Martin ignored Sherlock for the moment and instead glared at Mycroft.

"That last minute additional training requirement I had to take last week to renew my pilot's license, that was you wasn't it? I knew I had all my flight time!" Sherlock was right, Mycroft really had let all the power go to his head.

"I had hoped that you wouldn't have to make use of your training so soon, but needs must."

Included in the documents were also safety procedures, weather report, and a flight plan to Moscow.

"We're going to Moscow? I just got back from St. Petersburg three weeks ago! Do you have any idea how cold it is over there right now?"

"We won't be staying for long," Sherlock replied. "Just to refuel. I should have our new destination in mind by the time we get there. You can file another flight plan in Moscow."

"And who exactly is paying for all this?" Martin asked.

Martin may have spent most of his summer holidays as a child with the Holmes' family, but there had been some sort of agreement between Martin's two families about each other's financial responsibilities or some such nonsense. In the end, it just meant that the Crieffs were financial responsible for Martin. And while the Holmes may choose to shower him with gifts on his birthday and Christmas and bear the costs of his stay with them over the summer, George Crieff was able to feed and support his family and needed no handouts, thank you very much.

"For that matter, how did I manage to afford the Phenom 300? That plane costs at least five and a half million pounds!"

"Close to eight, actually," Mycroft replied. "Last minute modifications had to be made to ensure it suits your purpose. Its range has been extended to 2,400 nautical miles, communications and security updated, among other things.

"Your cover story is that you've inherited a large sum of money from a distant relation who recently passed. After three years at MJN, you decide to use the money and start your own executive charter jet business, hence the new plane and Pegasus Air was born." Mycroft produced another smaller envelope to Martin.

"Just some cash for you to start out with. There's also a credit card in your name. It's untraceable and doesn't have a credit limit." Mycroft turned his attention to Sherlock. "You, being dead, will no longer have access to your trust fund. Martin's card should be sufficient to pay for both your expenses, but 'no credit limit' does not mean that the funds won't eventually run out."

A look from Mycroft and a nod for Martin was all that was needed between the brothers.

"Oh please, I'm not a child, I can take care of myself!" Sherlock protested.

The eldest and the youngest Holmes both ignored him.

* * *

Sherlock was six when he was introduced to his 'new' little brother, Martin. Sherlock would not have believed that Martin was his brother except he looked exactly like Sherlock when Sherlock was younger. Other than his hair of course. Sherlock had his mother's dark hair while Martin's hair was even redder than Mycroft's.

At first, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do with a little brother. Mycroft used to sit with Sherlock and tell him about his classes, taught him how to observe, and find him all sorts of books on interesting stuff like geography and science, instead of the boring picture books everyone seemed to think he'd like. Just because he was six didn't mean he was stupid.

But ever since Mycroft started boarding school, Sherlock hardly saw him other than on school holidays and it was not as fun anymore. So Sherlock decided that he would be the big brother that Mycroft was before he went to school and got fat and boring. Sherlock would never be a boring brother.

Martin seemed to be obsessed with aeroplanes, which, considering that he'd just been on one, was reasonable. Listening to Martin talk about aeroplanes was surprisingly less boring than Sherlock expected, though it did get a bit repetitive after a while, but Martin was only four.

That year, he asked his parents whether he could send Martin a book about aeroplanes for Christmas. Mummy and Father both looked really pleased at his request and they made it a family trip to the bookstore where Sherlock picked up a colourful book about all the different types of aeroplanes.

* * *

Russia in March was exactly as cold as Russia was in February, and it was still far bigger than necessary.

While the Phenom 300 had two pilots' seat in the cockpit, technically it only required one person to fly it. However, it didn't stop Martin from wishing that there was someone else beside him. The flight deck was too quiet.

He had gotten used to Douglas's presence beside him. The fact that he was alone without the safety net of having a senior, know-it-all First Officer was also rather daunting. What if something went wrong and he couldn't handle it? There would be no one to take over and he would be letting Sherlock and Mycroft down.

The bird strike incident at St. Petersburg had left him more shaken than he remembered ever being, but it had also made Martin realise that he was a good pilot despite his multiple failed attempts at getting his CPL. Besides, it was Sherlock's fault for at least half of those failed attempts, so technically, he only failed twice.

Since taking off from London, Sherlock had changed out of his usual clothes and was now clad in non-descriptive jeans and a plain blue button up shirt. He had somehow managed to give himself a haircut with one arm still in the sling, and now spotted a hairstyle not unlike one of the Beatles. Sherlock had also somehow managed to find a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, and as a result, looked nothing like the Sherlock Martin knew and grew up with.

Martin figured that if he could barely recognise Sherlock, then there's a good chance that no one else would either.

They were now on their way to Dubai and Sherlock had finally passed out on one of the six passenger seats in the main cabin.

The Phenom 300 was smaller than Gerti, but she was brand new with state of the art equipment, and that was before Mycroft's modifications. Alone in the cockpit with the lights turned off, Martin really did felt like he was flying a fighter jet.

"Papa Tango Oscar Mike... Phantom. I'm going to call you Phantom," Martin said to himself. Somehow, that seemed an appropriate name for the plane considering their mission. He was expecting a sarcastic response to the name he picked, but none came. At that moment, Martin missed Douglas more than he thought was possible.

* * *

Except for handful of occasion, Martin usually spent Christmas with his mum and dad. This year, however, Sherlock had specifically requested Martin's presence at the Holmes Christmas dinner.

It had been a couple of years since Martin had visited the Holmes estate. With Sherlock at university and Martin busy with his GCSE preparations, there simply wasn't time.

Martin had never felt comfortable the few times he had been at the Holmes' Christmas dinner. Everyone was always so stiff and formal, and Martin was always afraid that he might say or do something stupid and embarrass himself. Martin was not alone in that regards; Sherlock had never liked the dinners either, which was why it came as a bit of a surprise when he received an invitation from Sherlock.

The reason became apparent as soon as Martin arrived at the estate on Christmas Eve.

"Martin, I want you to meet Victor." Sherlock had grabbed Martin the moment he stepped through the front door. Martin frowned in confusion at his brother's uncharacteristic behaviour as Sherlock dragged him upstairs towards one of the guest suites.

"Victor?" Martin asked.

"He's uh... a friend."

"A friend?" As far as Martin knew, Sherlock never really bothered with making friends when he was at school. There were acquaintances, fellow classmates, and people he found useful, but never any real friends. Except Martin of course, but Martin was his brother, so it didn't really count.

"Yes. He's just started his Masters of Music studies at the university. You're always saying how you love listening to me play, you should listen to Victor. He's a pianist and a composer, and he's absolutely wonderful. Someone at the dorm complained about my violin and I couldn't play it in my room anymore, so I tried to find a room at the music department, and walked into Victor's rehearsal. That's how we met, six months ago."

Martin could only blink at his brother rapid-fire exposition. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right, I just want you to meet Victor."

"I've never seen you like this before."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, finally stopping in front of a door.

Martin paused, considering his answer. "Happy," he finally said, knowing that was what exactly Sherlock was; happy. His brother had been smiling the entire time he was speaking, and it wasn't even the excited and somewhat manic smile Sherlock usually gets after a successful experiment. This smile had been gentler; it was quite similar to the smile his dad sometimes gave his mum. "Oh," Martin said in realisation. Sherlock was stupidly in love with this Victor, just like his dad was stupidly in love with his mum, even after 16 years of marriage.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, nothing. So, Victor?" Martin wasn't sure whether Sherlock was aware that he was in love or not. Given his past experience with Sherlock's social skills and what he'd come to termed 'emotional idiocy', Martin would not be surprised if Sherlock was completely clueless.

"Yes!" Sherlock knocked on the door and burst in without waiting for a reply. "Victor?"

There was a man sitting by the fire, reading. He looked up when Sherlock and Martin entered the room. As far as Martin could tell, he appeared to be in his early 20s, and his face lit up when he saw Sherlock. "Sherlock," he greeted with a besotted smile.

"Victor, I want you to meet my younger brother, Martin," Sherlock said. "Martin, this is Victor Trevor, the friend I was telling you about."

"Nice to meet you, Martin."

"Likewise," Martin replied, accepting the handshake Victor offered.

"Sherlock never told me he had a younger twin brother."

"We're not twins," Sherlock and Martin chorused, causing Victor to laugh.

"Martin's two years younger," Sherlock explained. "But you're not the first one who'd mistaken us for twins."

That Christmas at the Holmes estate was the most relaxed Christmas Martin had spent with the Holmes family and it was all due to Victor's easy charm and quiet sophistication. Sherlock was right, Victor was a fantastic pianist and the duet they played for everyone after dinner had stayed with Martin for months after.

It really didn't come as a surprise when two months later, Sherlock telephoned to tell Martin that he was officially seeing Victor.

* * *

"Stupid, stupid, STUPID!" Sherlock slapped himself in the forehead as he paced back and forth the aisle of Phantom. "It was so _obvious_! Why didn't I see it?!"

"Sherlock, sit down and put on your seat belt!" Martin yelled at him from the cockpit. He was in the middle of completing his takeoff checks and obtaining clearance from the air traffic controllers.

"Why didn't I see it?!" Sherlock shouted back at his brother.

"Tower, this is Papa Tango Oscar Mike, requesting clearance for take off," Martin said into the headset before then covering the microphone with his hands. "Sherlock, sit down or risk damaging that brain of yours when you fall over from the acceleration."

"Argh!" Sherlock yelled in frustration before deciding to take the second seat in the cockpit right next to Martin, buckling the seatbelt as Martin pressed some buttons and flick some switches.

"Unless you want us to crash, don't touch anything," Martin warned, not taking his eyes off the various instruments in front of him.

It was too dark outside to see much except for the brightly lit runway and what was essentially a shed that was calling itself an airport. It was unlikely that Moriarty's minions had followed him, but Sherlock couldn't completely rule out the possibility.

"Cleared for takeoff, Runway three." Martin said in response to something over the radio and flicked a couple more switches, turning the plane to the correct runway for takeoff. The plane's twin engines roared to life as soon as Martin pushed the throttle control to half, and then to full. Sherlock could feel the inertia building as the plane started accelerating down the runway. Within seconds, they were airborne, with Martin fiddling with various dials and buttons in order to keep them in the air.

Despite growing up listening to Martin talk about aeroplanes, Sherlock had no idea what most of the controls in front of him were for. It was probably because he deleted most of the information over the years. Some of them, like the compass, were obvious, but none of the readings on the central multi function display made much sense to Sherlock.

About five minutes after take off, Martin checked the autopilot to make sure everything was all right and they settled on a cruising altitude

"What the hell happened?" Martin asked. "We were lucky to get clearance for take off this quickly, and you looked like you were expecting someone to come after us the entire time."

"It was a misdirection. That clue from Prague was planted by Moriarty to lead me on a wild goose chase. I should've seen it sooner, everything was too neat, too tidy, that should've been the first clue!" Sherlock couldn't believe how stupid he was to have followed such an obvious trail. He might as well have been blind.

"Do you think he suspected that it was you?" Martin asked. The concern in his voice was clear.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. We've been careful, but after this last fiasco, I think we need to lay low for a while and regroup."

Martin let out a relieved sigh. "Good. With all the time zone hopping we've been doing in the last few days, I'd barely slept at all in the last couple of days. You can keep an eye up here on the flight deck while I get some sleep. Wake me up when it's time to land."

"Was that a joke?" Sherlock stared at his brother.

"No. I'm completely knackered. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't even be fit to fly under CAA's guidelines, but since we were technically running for our lives, I guess exceptions have to be made. Now that we're in the air, I plan to take a nap. It's either that or risk crashing when it's time to land."

"I'm not qualified to fly the plane," Sherlock hated stating the obvious, but Martin seemed to have lost his mind so he probably needed a reminder.

"Yes, I know that. You're not flying the plane though, the autopilot is doing all the flying. All you need to do is keep an eye out on this." Martin pointed at a reading on the multifunction display. "Make sure it doesn't deviate more than point-eighth of a standard unit. And this is the navigation system, our course has been plotted as you can see from the line there, make sure we stay on it, if we move even a fraction out, wake me." He then pointed at the screen right in front of Sherlock, similar to the one right in front of Martin. "And this is the artificial horizon, make sure it stays as it is. Pay attention outside as well. Sky's pretty clear at the moment so clouds shouldn't be a problem, just make sure we don't fly into any mountains."

Sherlock must have looked as alarmed as he felt because Martin immediately added "I'm kidding, I'm kidding! We're cruising at 40,000 feet over a desert; there aren't any mountains in this area that are that high. Oh, and put on the headset. If ATC radios in, wake me. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded, taking in all the information before him: all the little bits of details, everything happening at the same time. Sherlock had no doubt he would've been driven insane by all the procedures and protocols that had to be followed, and he wondered how Martin manage to cope with it all.

"I should be able to manage," he replied, putting on the headset. "If anything changes dramatically on those displays, I am to wake you."

"No, if it changes dramatically, it'll be too late and we'll be dead. Anything more than a slight deviation, wake me."

"Yes. All right."

"Good." And with that, Martin leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Sherlock experienced a brief unexpected sense of panic at Martin's action. But when Phantom continued on her journey without falling out of the sky, Sherlock calmed and chided himself for being stupid once again. The autopilot was on, the plane wasn't going to crash just because her pilot was asleep. Besides, Martin would not put them at risk if he weren't confident that Sherlock would be able to handle the simple task of monitoring the equipment.

Watching his exhausted brother slumped in his seat, Sherlock wondered, for the first time since he walked out of the hospital four months ago, whether he had made the right decision. Knowing Martin as well as he did, Sherlock knew even before he asked that his brother would come with him if he asked.

 _How is he different to John then? You're putting Martin at risk to protect John. Just what sort of brother are you, Sherlock Holmes?_ A part of Sherlock's brain pointed out that Moriarty quite likely didn't know about Sherlock's relationship with Martin, which meant he was less at risk than John. However, it was hard to dismiss the fact that Martin had quite often been mistaken for being Sherlock, or his twin. Anyone with half a brain only had to look at Martin to realise that they were related, no matter what their birth certificates say.

Paperwork lie; blood doesn't.

The sky outside was pitch black. Even if it wasn't, there probably wasn't much to see over the Sahara. Sherlock remembered flying over the Sahara once, when he was a child. Mummy had wanted a break from the cold British winter and during their winter break, decided the family should take a week long educational trip to Egypt. Nine-year-old Sherlock had plastered his face to the window and watched the world below. From the sky, the Sahara was a sea of cream coloured nothingness. Plain, dull, and boring, much like everyone's first impression of John.

Since boarding the plane with Martin in London, Sherlock had managed to stop himself from thinking about John; it was a distraction he could ill afford, but now, with nothing but the blackness of the sky before him and the dim lights of the cockpit for company, his mind betrayed him.

Just like the three-day camping trip to the desert had proven Sherlock wrong, a mere handful of hours in John's company had given Sherlock a glimpse of the depth and complexities beneath the cream woolen jumper. Sherlock didn't even realised just how deep he had sunk until a mad man strapped a bomb to his heart and declared that he would destroy it. The irony was that Sherlock didn't even know he had a heart left to begin with.

John had shielded Sherlock from the worst of the blast, allowing him to escape with a few cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and some minor cuts and bruises. John had not been as lucky. Sherlock had refused to leave John's bedside until the doctors decided that John's condition had improved enough for them to lift the induced coma. When John's hand had started to twitch and tighten its grip on his own, Sherlock had stood up, placed a kiss on John's forehead and murmured his goodbyes.

_"Sherlock, this is madness!" Mycroft's objections were stronger than Sherlock predicted. "You're going to put everyone through hell if you go through this plan of yours. You would break Mummy's and Father's hearts, and John would no doubt blame himself for your 'death'."_

_"I can't let him get away, Mycroft. Moriarty has to be taken care of. He must not be allowed to continue."_

_"This game of yours has gone far enough."_

_"It's not a game!" Sherlock had all but roared, his reaction taking Mycroft by surprise. "It stopped being a game the moment he blew that old lady up. And it most definitely stopped being a game the moment he strapped a bomb to John!"_

_"Sherlock – "_

_"Enough, Mycroft! Either you help me or I'll do this myself."_

_There was a long moment of silence as Mycroft scrutinised him before he said: "Be at the east exit in an hour. The news of your unfortunate passing during the night will be released in the morning."_

Even now, Sherlock still wasn't sure what it was Mycroft saw that made him gave in.

* * *

The pit stop in Nigeria was barely long enough for Martin to get some them some food and Phantom refueled, before they were on their way again to Johannesburg. Sherlock's intended destination was Cape Town. However, the close call they had in Algeria had made Sherlock more cautious than ever, diverting them to Johannesburg instead of flying straight to Cape Town.

"I'll take the bus to Cape Town. It would take me at least two days to get the information I need, then I'll get a train back."

"You're going off on your own?" Martin asked. What was he supposed to do if anything happened to Sherlock while he was in Cape Town? What if Moriarty's men followed them?

"Can't be help. You need to stay with the plane."

"The plane's fine where it is! I can't let you go on your own! It's 900 miles from here to Cape Town, what if something happens? It's over two hours by plane!" Mycroft may have trusted him with the money and Sherlock's general wellbeing, but Martin wasn't sure he would know what to do if something happened to Sherlock. He was good with budgeting, more than persuasive enough to make sure Sherlock ate and slept, and capable of flying Phantom. That was it.

"Martin, we can't risk something happening to Phantom. The trip to Cape Town isn't dangerous. The man I'm looking for owes me. I've saved him and his family. He's not violent and will not betray me. I will be fine."

"But – " If anything happened to Sherlock....

"It'll take me a day to even get to Cape Town and another day to get back here. Take the next two days to rest. Then be on stand-by. You can file the next flight plan once I get the information I need in Cape Town, and we'll depart as soon as I return."

Sherlock left no room for further argument. He had been rather sullen since they left Algeria, so Martin didn't really want to upset him further by protesting. He'd let Sherlock ran off on his own after extracting a promise to send a text every twelve hours, just to let Martin know he was all right.

That was four days ago. Martin now sat sat in the minimalist crew lounge at the small private airport just out of Johannesburg waiting for Sherlock to text him when he heard the unmistakably cheerful voice of Arthur Shappey.

* * *

Martin had never been a brilliant student, not like Mycroft or Sherlock (he was definitely the dimmest bulb in the room in the Holmes family), but he wasn't stupid either. He was diligent enough to be a B-average student, and if he really put his mind to it, he sometimes could manage an A in Mathematics and Physics as well. Unlike Simon, who was a solid D-student, obsessed with football.

In other words, Martin was average.

The day his GCSEs were due to be released, Martin was so nervous that he almost passed out from hyperventilation before he could head into school.

"Oh God, I can't look," Martin moaned, clutching the envelope in his hands.

Mum had to pry it out of his clenched fist before she opened the envelope.

"You passed! Oh, Martin, I'm so proud of you!" Mum had cried.

But Martin knew he passed. He would've had to screw up colossally at the exams to have failed. What he needed to know was whether he had the grades to be accepted to flight school. Snatching the result slip from his mother's hand, he read on, trying to suppress his panic.

English – B  
Mathematics – B  
German – C  
Geography – B  
Physics – A  
Chemistry – C  
Biology – C  
Psychology – B

"Oh, thank god!" Martin almost passed out from relief. It met the minimum requirements for flight school and confirmed his place at the local sixth-form college.

For the next two years, and through sheer hard work, Martin managed to achieve straight Bs for English, Mathematics and Physics for his A-Levels and once again, almost passed out from relief on results day.

However, mum and dad were not pleased when Martin announced he had been accepted to the Oxford Aviation Academy. They had hoped Martin would grow out of his obsession with being a pilot and pursue a more traditional university course or a vocational course like his dad and Simon.

"Martin," his dad had said. "We can't afford this. Simon's in the middle of his NVQs and Caitlyn's still in school. We have enough saved for your first two years of university if you go somewhere close and live at home, but that's barely enough to cover a quarter of the costs for flight school."

"But I've always wanted to be a pilot!" Martin cried, on the verge of breaking down. He had worked so hard and even passed the aptitude test, which he had sat over the summer break without his parents' knowledge.

"Son, we simply cannot afford £26,000 a year plus living costs. I work my arse off and even with your mum's part-time job, we're barely making £35,000 a year before tax. There's the mortgage to pay off, the car loan, not to mention all the bills around the house. I'm sorry son, we just can't afford it. Why don't you consider the offer from London Met for Aviation Management? If you get a part-time job, we might be able to afford that."

That night, when Sherlock telephoned to enquire about his results, Martin did break down and cried. Later that same night, his father rang to speak to his dad. It was a long conversation and Martin fell asleep from emotional exhaustion before they finished.

The next morning, Martin was told he could accept the offer from Oxford Aviation Academy.

* * *

"Skip? Is it really you?" Any hope of the MJN crew not noticing him was shattered with Arthur's hopeful yell.

Steeling himself, Martin turned around to face his ex-colleagues.

"Oh my god! It really is you!" Arthur cried and Martin found himself with an armful of Arthur and an inability to breathe.

"Arthur!" Martin managed to get out before he felt the arms around him tightened even more. "Can't breathe!"

"Arthur! Martin's face is turning so red it's purple, let go of him or I fear he may pass out from lack of oxygen," Carolyn said, and much to Martin's relief, Arthur let go of him.

"Oh, this is brilliant Skip! We've been wondering what happened to you." Arthur began. "The morning mum got your letter of resignation, we went to your place, but they said you moved out and only left a PO Box as a forwarding address. Mum and Douglas went to the post office to try and get them to tell us where you were but no one knew anything. We even went to the police, but this scarily pretty lady showed up and told us not to worry about you and that you just needed a change and everything's fine. I swear, the whole time her eyes never left her mobile. I kept thinking whether she also goes to the loo with the mobile and if it's waterproof or splash proof so she could also take a bath with it."

When Martin's brain caught up with the barrage of information Arthur had spewed, he felt his chest tighten and had to take a deep breath to calm himself. Even with his email, they had tried to find him. They even went to the police! Martin took another deep breath; he was not going to cry in front of Carolyn and everyone else.

"Martin, are you all right?" Douglas's concerned tone was almost Martin's undoing.

"I'm fine. It's good to see all of you again," Martin replied sincerely. He had missed them more than he thought was possible. Only the thought of having to focus and make sure Sherlock was all right had stopped him from thinking too much about the life he left behind.

"Are you sure?" Carolyn asked. "You're thinner than when I last saw you, and I never thought that was possible."

"I'm fine. What are you guys doing here anyway? Don't you usually land at Grand Central?" Martin avoided Carolyn's question. He wasn't sure how to explain his current situation and he had a feeling he might reveal more than he ought to if he started talking about it. That would put Sherlock at risk, and that was just not acceptable.

"Oh, is that why you're here at Rand then? To avoid accidentally bumping into us? Too rich to be seen with us mere mortals now, are we?"

Martin flinched at Douglas's cutting remark. "It's not like that, Douglas."

"Then what is it? One email to Carolyn with barely any explanation, and it was as though you vanished from the surface of the planet. When we started asking questions, someone's secretary turned up to tell us that you've moved on to better and brighter things, and that we should 'back off or else'," Douglas continued, sounding angry and disappointed at the same time.

"She threatened you?" Martin paled. Mycroft wouldn't, would he? Only he totally, completely, would. It was _Mycroft._

"Oh, not denying that you know her then?" said Douglas.

"No, she didn't. Not explicitly anyway, but it was clear that was her employer's message," Carolyn interrupted before Douglas could continue.

"I didn't hire her!" Martin blurted. Anthea had always crept him out and he wouldn't be surprised if Carolyn and Douglas had the same reaction to her. She was the creepiest PA Martin had ever met, and he suspected that was why Mycroft hired her.

"Oh, really? Then who did?" Douglas asked, not letting up even one bit. "That rich dead relative who happened to have left all his money to you? The family ghost, perhaps? Or some shadowy British government agency with a mission to ensure all your dreams come true, Captain?"

Without knowing it, Douglas's last statement came closer to the truth than Martin was comfortable with. None of the MJN crew knew about the Holmes side of his family because Martin had never told them about it. How could he explain his father, his mum and Aunt Ana? How could he even _begin_ to describe Sherlock and Mycroft to anyone who hasn't met them?

"I'm sorry." In the end, that was all Martin could say. He sank back down into his seat and rubbed his face with his palms. "I am so very, very sorry," he repeated, avoiding the gaze of his former crewmates.

Maybe this was why Sherlock had wanted him to say no that night. The reason why Mycroft asked him whether he was sure or not. His brothers must know that Martin wouldn't be able to handle things and would just make the situation worse. He couldn't even try to maintain the cover story long enough in front of his former colleagues, what use would he be if faced with an international criminal mastermind or his minions? What use was he when he couldn't even help his brother when he needed it the most?

"Skip? You don't have to tell us if you don't want to." Arthur's gentle voice brought Martin out of his stupor. He looked up to find three pairs of concerned eyes on him. "Are you sure you're all right, Skip? You don't look all right."

"I... I'm fine."

"Yes, you've been saying that for the last ten minutes, yet no one believes you." Douglas frowned at him, his anger from earlier dulled.

"You're not in any trouble are you, Martin?" Carolyn asked, sounding more like a mother than a CEO.

"Because if you are, I'm sure Douglas can figure something out." Martin had to smile at the confidence Arthur had in Douglas's ability to sort things out. Unfortunately, this was beyond even Douglas's power to solve.

"No, I'm not in any trouble," Martin shook his head. "It's just... the last few months have been hard. I've been under a lot of stress and the only person I can talk to... well, he's under even more stress than I am. We're both sort of secretly stressing each other out and worrying about each other and he's now in the middle of something and I'm just really worried and...."

"Stressed?" Douglas supplied.

"Yeah. That." Martin sighed.

"Anything we can do to help, Skip? I'm sure we can figure something out if all of us put our heads together."

"Thank you for your offer, Arthur, but I'm afraid this is beyond any of our abilities."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Martin saw Douglas signaling Carolyn, who immediately decided that she and Arthur needed to go and restock Gerti's food supply before they were due to fly out in a few hours.

"What was that about?" Martin asked, looking suspiciously at Douglas who sat down in the seat beside him.

"I just wanted to talk to you alone for a minute."

"Really? I didn't realise," Martin retorted. "Very subtle. I see that's why Carolyn made you captain."

"Ah yes, noticed that didn't you?"

"Of course I noticed."

"And I also noticed that you're not in uniform."

"Don't have one. It's just me anyway," Martin shrugged.

"No crew? Co-pilot? First Officer?"

"Nope. Just me."

"Martin, you look like hell."

Martin blinked. Surely he didn't look that bad?

"Yes, you do look that bad, which was why, instead of berating you for being an inconsiderate twat for disappearing off the face of the planet, Carolyn worried about your health instead."

"Oh," Martin blinked. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."

"No, you never mean to." It was Douglas's turn to sigh. "Are you sure I cannot offer you my assistance in whatever trouble it is you've gotten yourself into?"

Martin shook his head. "I'm _really_ not in any trouble."

"But there is trouble?"

Martin hesitated before eventually settled on: "Not for me. I'm just the pilot."

"Who is worried about his passenger? Stressed, I can understand, but worry, I find that a very unusual concept."

"How's everyone been?" Martin once again tried to avoid the topic.

"There was a bit of panic after you vanished, but things have settled down a little. After promoting me to Captain, Carolyn even hired a fresh graduate pilot as First Officer. He's so wet behind his ears he might as well be in the bath."

Martin smiled at the description. "He must really look up to you then." _Just like I do,_ Martin silently added. No point inflating Douglas's ego even further by saying it out loud.

"Oh, of course. He's so in awe of me that even _I'm_ embarrassed for him. If I told him that the sky was bronze and the moon is in fact made out of Camembert, he would agree with me."

Martin laughed. "Must be fantastic for you then. Someone who worships the ground you walk on and hangs on to every word you say, treating it as gospel. No one was ever in awe of me when I was captain..." he trailed off. And why should they? He was never a proper Captain, not like Douglas.

"It was rather nice at first, but then it got boring not having anyone to argue with." Douglas smiled mischievously, as though he was going to let Martin in on a secret. "Doogie's even crappier at word games than you are."

"You're joking. He's name is Doogie?" Martin choked back his laughter, thankful to Douglas for trying to lighten the mood.

"Doogie Howard, F.O. Apparently his mother's a big fan of Neal Patrick Harris."

It was a minute or so before Douglas spoke again. "It's only been four months, but you've changed, Martin." Martin looked at Douglas, surprised by his observation. "Is it important, what you're doing?" Douglas asked.

"Yes. Very." Martin replied.

"In that case, I wish you all the best."

"I... thank you, Douglas. That's uh... very kind of you." Martin wished his voice hadn't sounded as shaky as it did just then.

They sat together in silence for a minute, each lost in their own thoughts.

"So," Martin said eventually, trying to regain his composure. "Where's Doogie then?"

* * *

It had been raining non-stop for the last three days, not that it was unusual for Oxford in the autumn, but with his CPL exam in two days, having clear skies would definitely make his life easier.

Martin had just finished dinner and was about to sit down to do some more revision when someone banged on the door to his studio flat. He wasn't expecting anyone, but it could be Mr. Davies next door wanting to borrow some more milk.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Sherlock standing on his doorstep, completely drenched and looking utterly lost.

Pulling Sherlock into the flat, Martin grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around Sherlock, who was still standing where Martin left him, staring at the puddle on the floor.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

When Sherlock finally lifted his head, the look of utter devastation in his eyes made Martin's breath hitch. His heart rate increased, fearing for the worse as his brain tried to process the sight before him.

"What happened? Where's Victor?" There was no way Victor would've allowed Sherlock to run out without appropriate rainwear.

And that was when Sherlock collapsed, limbs seemingly folding in onto himself as if all the life had been sucked out of him.

"Sherlock!" Martin rushed to his brother's side, finding Sherlock unconscious, but still breathing. There were no signs of any injuries, but Sherlock's skin was clammy, and he looked even paler than usual. Martin wasn't sure if that was due to having been in the rain for God knows how long, or there was some other cause.

Martin quickly grabbed his pillow and the cordless phone from the bed. Once he placed the pillow beneath Sherlock's head, he dialed Mycroft's personal number from memory.

"Is he with you?" Was the first thing Mycroft said when he answered the phone on the first ring. His oldest brother sounded more anxious than Martin ever remembered.

"Yes. He passed out two minutes after he got here. What happened? Where's Victor?" Martin asked, sure in the knowledge that Mycroft knew everything.

"Victor was in an accident about three hours ago. While walking home from the university, he was hit by a motorist who lost control of his car and crashed into the footpath."

"Is he..." but even as Martin was asking the question, he already knew the answer. Sherlock wouldn't be unconscious on his floor if Victor was all right.

"Victor died on the scene." Mycroft said, his voice softening. "Sherlock was at their flat when the police informed him of the news. I couldn't get hold of him after that and no one was at his place when I sent my people to check."

"And you didn't think to ring me?!" Martin almost yelled.

"I didn't want to distract you from your studies." Mycroft sounded tired.

"Screw my studies! My future brother-in-law just died and my brother's passed out on my floor from shock, and is probably getting hypothermia as we speak. Shit!" Martin swore, remembering his first aid training. "I need to get him out of his wet clothes!"

"If he wakes up, keep him with you. I'm on my way."

Martin hung up without saying goodbye, his attention now completely focused on Sherlock.

One of the reasons Martin had picked the Oxford Aviation Academy was because Sherlock was at Oxford. Victor had asked Martin to move in with him and Sherlock since they had a spare room. But after a month, Martin had found the commute to the airport where most his classes were held too inconvenient. He found a small studio apartment closer to the airport instead and met up with Sherlock and Victor on weekends.

He couldn't think about Victor right now, about how he had brunch with him and Sherlock last Saturday when the sky was clear and the sun was shining.

Martin was completely out of breath after stripping Sherlock's wet clothing from his unconscious form. He then quickly dressed Sherlock in one of his own bathrobes. Sherlock's skin was still cold and clammy, and since there was no way he could carry him to the bed, Martin turned on his portable heater and dragged the duvet from his bed to cover Sherlock.

"I'm doing this right, aren't I? Supposed to keep them dry and warm, and... and... oh god, Sherlock, wake up. I should call triple-nine shouldn't I? They never covered this in first aid!" Martin knew he was working himself up to a state, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"I should call an ambulance. Yes, I should. Where did I put the phone? Shit, shit, shit!"

Before he could go into a state of panic, there was an urgent knock on his door. Martin opened the door and Mycroft brushed passed Martin towards Sherlock.

"It's barely been half an hour. How did you get from London so quickly?" Martin asked.

"You live next to an airport, Martin. I had a helicopter waiting for me and was on the way to the airport when you rang."

"Do we need to get him to a hospital? He's been unconscious for about 40 minutes now. Is that normal?"

"Martin, help me get him off the floor."

The both of them managed to manhandle Sherlock onto Martin's bed before Martin sat down beside Sherlock.

"Oh my god, Victor." Martin moaned.

"Martin, don't." Mycroft said. "I can only deal with one of you having a mental breakdown right now."

"I'm not! I'm just... I... I just saw him on Saturday, and... he's... oh god, Victor." Martin buried his face in his hands, fighting the urge to cry.

It was then Sherlock let out a moan that completely broke Martin's heart, and he gave in and let the tears fell.

Martin didn't even remember his CPL test until he received a letter in the mail after coming back from Victor's funeral, informing him that absence without prior notice constituted an automatic failure.

* * *

They were on their way from Rome to the Ukraine when Sherlock suddenly said, "Teach me."

"Teach you what?" Martin asked in confusion.

"Teach me how to fly. It's only the two of us. If something happens to you, I need to know what to do."

"You don't remember a single thing I told you about flying over the years, do you?" Martin asked.

"They weren't relevant information at that time."

"So you deleted them." Martin said, trying not to laugh at a now sulky Sherlock.

For the next two hours, Martin went through the basic flight controls and functions with Sherlock. It felt like they were children again, Martin talking about flying, and Sherlock listening, occasionally asking for clarifications.

"The most important thing in an emergency is the radio," Martin showed Sherlock the radio controls. "You have to contact the closest ATC and keep them informed of the situation. They will be the ones who coordinate everything on the ground and talk you through what you need to do to land safely, or at least not crash too badly."

"Why do you always have to mention us crashing?" Sherlock asked, sounding surprisingly annoyed.

Martin looked at his brother, there was a flicker of fear that disappeared as soon as he saw Martin looking, but it was unmistakable to someone who knew Sherlock as well as Martin did.

"Are you afraid of flying?" Surely, that couldn't be it? Sherlock had been traveling on aeroplanes since he was a child, and he definitely hadn't shown any classic signs of aviophobia in the last six months of flying around with Martin.

"No," Sherlock denied. "I fly perfectly well as a passenger. It's this," he gestured at the cockpit controls around them and then at Martin. "And you."

"Me?" Martin felt as though as he'd been slapped. After all this time, it turned out that Sherlock didn't trust his skills. He was a complete idiot to think otherwise. Martin had always suspected that the only reason he was flying Phantom was because he was the only one Sherlock could trust not to be working for Moriarty. It had nothing to do with trusting his skills as a pilot.

"No, that's not what I meant! Of course I trust your piloting skills, you wouldn't be here if I didn't." It seemed that Sherlock's ability to read Martin's body language was not dulled at 35,000 feet. "I just meant that in a normal plane, there are two pilots. If anything happens to one of them, the other can take over. But we only have you and my brain can't help thinking that I would be helpless if anything happens to you while we're in the air - food poisoning, getting shot, whatever! There's absolutely nothing I can do to stop us from crashing, and that's just... It's just... not good." Sherlock finished.

"Sherlock, in the last two hours, you've learned about all the major controls in this flight deck and know how to operate about half of them. You may be a genius, but even you can't learn in two hours what normally takes two years."

When Sherlock didn't reply, an idea came to Martin. "Take the controls. I'm going to turn off the autopilot and we'll see how much of the last two hours has sunk into that brain of yours."

Martin would've laughed at Sherlock's panicked expression if he hadn't been sure that Sherlock would find a way to get back at him for it.

* * *

For every evil under the sun  
There is a remedy or there is none.  
If there be one, seek till you find it;  
If there be none, never mind it.

For Every Evil  
\- Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes

* * *

It was pointless. It has been more than a year since that fateful night when he broke into Martin's place and literally dragged his brother out of bed and into a plane with him. Everything that happened since then was for nothing.

Sherlock had managed to destroy a handful of Moriarty's operations around the world, but the criminal mastermind himself was as elusive as ever. With his various disguises, there was no indication that anyone suspected Sherlock was still alive, but he couldn't be sure. He can never be sure.

He'd hit a dead end in Columbia. The local authorities may be grateful that the local drug cartel was no longer as big a threat as it was, but that meant nothing to Sherlock. The trail to Moriarty ran cold in Columbia, and no matter how deep Sherlock dug, there was absolutely nothing for him to go on.

 _It can't end this way!_ His mind screamed at him as he paced back and forth in the hotel room. There must be something he was missing. All the clues had lead to La Palma, it couldn't just disappear.

Sherlock's fingers twitched and he wished he had his violin with him. The music and the familiar motions of bow against string had always helped him think. It's been over a year since he played. Like most of his things, the violin had been left behind at Baker Street when he 'died'. He hadn't thought of Baker Street much since walking out of the hospital, leaving John behind. He couldn't _afford_ to think of Baker Street, John, and the life – the man, he left behind. The mad chases across London, the quiet nights in, bickering over trivial things like milk and what was on the telly, playing his violin until John went back to sleep after one of his nightmares.

Did Mycroft pack up all of his belongings? Did John? Or had everything been left exactly as it was on the night Sherlock's world turned into fire, blood and water, like some macabre memorial?

He couldn't go back to that. Not now. Not when Moriarty was still out there. As long as he believed Sherlock to be dead, his home would be safe; John would be safe.

John.

If Sherlock concentrated, he could recall perfectly the first time they met at the lab in Bart's. Sherlock's last memory of John's still form lying on the hospital bed, struggling towards consciousness, was equally sharp. He could still smell the scent of anapestic in the air, feel John's callused hand in his, the unique scent that was purely 'John' when Sherlock leaned in to kiss him goodbye, the skin under his lips warm and so, so very much _alive_.

"Sherlock?"

It had been so long since Victor that Sherlock didn't even realise he had gone and fallen head over heels for John. He had thought it impossible to love someone else again after Victor. It was what made it so shocking, and he cursed himself for not realising until it was almost too late.

John had slipped pass all of Sherlock's barriers, and somehow managed to heal a part of Sherlock he long thought dead. _He is a doctor after all._

Sherlock had literally fallen to pieces after Victor's death. He dropped out of university, and eventually found solace in cocaine and various other substances; his mind whirling so fast that he was finally distracted from the pain and the grief. If something happened to John, Sherlock didn't think he could live through that a second time.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me, snap out of it, please."

Martin's hands on his shoulders finally caught Sherlock's attention and he looked at his brother. Martin, so selfless and determined, and always by his side when he needed it the most. Sherlock didn't deserve to have a brother like Martin.

Without a word, Martin enveloped him in a hug. Sherlock closed his eyes and sagged against his brother, just breathing and needing the contact.

"Did you know," Sherlock murmured against Martin's neck, eyes still closed. "It wasn't an accident."

"What wasn't an accident?"

"The O.D. seven years ago."

Sherlock felt Martin tense at his words, and then hug him even tighter, not saying a word. He didn't need to.

Sherlock couldn't risk losing John, because losing John meant losing himself. And if that meant Sherlock had to stay dead, then so be it.

* * *

Sherlock had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, leaving Martin wide-awake for a change. He had been terrified when he looked up from writing his diary to find Sherlock standing perfectly still in front of the window. When Martin went and stood in front of him, there had been no sign that Sherlock even registered his presence, so lost he was in his mind.

This latest set back in Columbia had hit Sherlock hard, harder than all others they'd encountered this past year. Martin wasn't sure why, but Sherlock seemed absolutely certain that the trail had ran cold and after more than a year spent chasing Moriarty, that was not an acceptable outcome.

Sherlock had chased down clues, destroyed a handful of Moriarty's operations and scattered his minions in order to flush Moriarty out of hiding, all with no obvious effect. It seemed like the more Sherlock uncovered about Moriarty's operations, the more was hidden from them.

Martin had tried his best to take care of his brother. Food, clothes, a place to sleep, and all of the day-to-day essentials that fell by the wayside when Sherlock was on the chase. But the constant travel, never staying in one place for more than a week; it was taking a toll on Sherlock.

Martin was used to the travel, it was his job as a pilot after all. However with the constant danger and fear of discovery hanging over their head, he found himself becoming more and more paranoid. He had even taken to trying to disguising himself to look less like Sherlock, just in case.

The confession Sherlock let slip a few hours ago was still fresh in Martin's mind. He was shocked, yet at the same time, not very surprised. Martin couldn't help wondering whether Mycroft had always suspected that the O.D. was actually a suicide attempt, which was why the monitoring on Sherlock doubled right after the incident.

One thing Martin could be sure of was that Sherlock had never told anyone about it. It was what worried Martin the most, that Sherlock's defenses were so far down that he'd revealed this secret.

Other than the run-in with MJN's crew in what seemed to Martin like a half a lifetime ago, neither he nor Sherlock had been in touch with anyone from their previous lives, including Mycroft. Neither of them was under the impression that Mycroft wasn't monitoring their every move, but there had been no direct contact thus far. Looking at his brother's sleeping form on the bed, pale and almost as thin as when he was still an addict, Martin made up his mind.

The secure satellite phone was buried in the depths of Martin's suitcase. Martin hadn't touched it since Mycroft gave it to him over a year ago, other than to check that the batteries were charged.

Martin closed the door to the small en-suite bathroom, not wanting to risk waking Sherlock up from his much needed rest, and dialed a long ago memorised number. The phone on the other side was picked up at the first ring.

"Martin," Mycroft's voice over the small speaker reassured Martin more than he thought was possible. "What do you need?"

"Sherlock's convinced that the trail's run cold. He's... he's... uh... not taking it well."

"I'll see what I can do." There was a pause before Mycroft continued. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. Just... worried about Sherlock. He passed out a few hours ago, but he hadn't slept at all in the last three days. I'm not sure how long he can keep going on like that. I... I tried. I try my best to get him to eat and sleep, but most of the time, he just won't listen. He won't let me near the cases, and I... don't know what else to do to help him. I just... don't know." Martin felt relief at finally able to tell someone about his uncertainties. He wasn't sure what Mycroft could do about it all the way from London, but to just be able to voice his thoughts was cathartic.

"You know Sherlock has always been difficult. You are doing as well as anyone could in the circumstances. Just make sure you take care of yourself, too. I dread to think what would become of Sherlock otherwise. Do you need anything else?"

Martin shook his head even though Mycroft couldn't see him, "No. Just some indication of the next likely place Moriarty could be hiding. Information is what Sherlock needs right now."

"Very well. I will contact you when I have it. In the mean time, get some rest yourself. I'll make sure you're undisturbed."

"Mycroft, thank you."

"It's what big brothers are for."

* * *

Sherlock had been apoplectic when he found out that Martin had called Mycroft, but when Mycroft's information came through three days later, he had no choice but to shut up about it.

It didn't stop him from grumbling about Martin going behind his back. But Martin could live with that, especially when he saw Sherlock becoming more animated as he read through the package Mycroft sent.

The information Mycroft unearthed lead them back across the Atlantic to Qatar, Mumbai, and now towards Singapore. Martin was alone on the flight deck; Sherlock had pretty much turned the passenger cabin into some sort of war room with paper stuck all over the interior of the plane. It was only the threat of being grounded that prevented Sherlock from sticking his various maps , transcripts of telephone conversations, photographs and god knows what else to the windows and a few essential safety equipments.

Martin was in the middle of wondering what on earth Sherlock was doing to the interior of the plane when he noticed the approaching storm clouds on the weather radar.

"Bangkok Tower, this is Papa Tango Oscar Mike," Martin said into the radio.

"Papa Tango Oscar Mike, this is Bangkok Tower."

"I'm reading approaching storm from north-east, please confirm."

There was a pause, and then Bangkok ATC came back on. "Confirm tropical storm Wutip in your vector. 18 knots crosswind and 6 knots tailwind. Recommend diversion."

"Confirm diversion."

Martin plotted the new course that would take them around the storm. He then hit the button for the PA system. "Sherlock, we're going to be flying through some pretty rough weather. You'll want to pack up anything important and strap yourself down."

A few minutes later, just as they were skirting the edge of the storm clouds, Sherlock appeared on the flight deck and strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat.

"Don't touch anything," Martin said, his concentration focusing completely on the instruments before him. Now really wasn't the time to be teaching Sherlock about the finer points of flying.

With their limited fuel, Martin wasn't able to plot too far out of the storm's radius and it was likely that they might catch the edge of the storm as they fly past it. Two years ago, he probably would have fumbled through everything, getting flustered and eventually Douglas would have to take over. Now, there wasn't anyone but him who was able to get them through this.

The storm wasn't big, and the situation was nowhere near as critical as it was at St. Petersburg where he had to land with only one engine and 21 knots crosswind. If Martin could deal with that, then he could deal with a little turbulence without freaking out.

Just like dealing with any genuine flight emergencies he had encountered in his career, Martin felt a sense of calm settling over him as he expertly maneuvered Phantom around Tropical Storm Wutip.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't make it to Dad's 60th?" Simon Crieff's tone was cutting. Despite being a year younger, Simon had always been the one who took charge of things at home. It was mostly because Martin was usually too busy with schoolwork. Naturally, Simon took it upon himself to organise dad's 60th birthday party.

"I've told you _months_ ago I've got my CPL test booked on that day. I'll be home on Dad's actual birthday on Sunday, I just can't make it to the party on Friday." Martin explained, trying not to lose his patience. "Why did you arrange the party for Friday anyway?"

"Because Uncle Steven and Aunt Karen are attending a play on Sunday and mum has to work over the weekend."

"So you're telling me that my test is less important than Uncle Steven and Aunt Karen's play?" Martin gritted his teeth. He knew his mum was only working on Sunday morning and would be home by lunch. There really was no reason for them to have the party on Friday night instead of Sunday afternoon.

"I don't even know why you're taking that test again. How many times have you failed already? Half a dozen times? You might just as well be flushin' the money down the loo for all the good it's done."

"Four times, but it wasn't my fault for two of those times," Martin protested.

"That's what you always say. That no use posh half-brother of yours, every time he calls, you jump, but you can't even be bothered coming home for Dad's 60th."

Martin had to resist the urge to hang up on Simon. It would probably just infuriate his brother even more if he did so. "They're completely different situations! Sherlock almost died! I couldn't just leave him alone."

"Yeah, from a drug overdose that he brought on himself." Martin could hear the bitterness in Simon's voice over the phone. "I guess I know where your family loyalty lies. Should've known, with that posh accent you put on. Wouldn't want to be seen hangin' out with us commoners."

There really was no arguing with Simon. They had gotten along well as children, but as they got older, Simon grew to resent Martin's relationship with the Holmes. Things only got worse when Martin finally went off to aviation school, with his exorbitant school fees being paid for by his biological father.

"Simon, I told everyone _months_ ago that I'll be taking my CPL test on the Friday. Yet you and Caitlyn went ahead and organised everything on that day after I told you I couldn't make it. Don't blame me for not being able to be there."

Simon snorted. "The world doesn't revolve around you and your other family, Martin. Come home or not, I don't care. I'm doing this for Dad, not you. You flunked the test before all on your own, without your freak brother's help, what makes you think this time's going to be any different?" And with that, Simon hung up.

Martin looked at the phone in his hand, not believing what just happened. Martin was tempted to go home right this moment just to strangle Simon for what he said about Sherlock. How could Simon be so completely unreasonable?

Martin felt the tears of frustration running down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them back. Angrily, he wiped them away, determined to prove Simon wrong about his abilities as a pilot.

"I'm going to pass this time," Martin said to himself. "Just watch me."

* * *

No matter how many times Martin has been to Hong Kong, it never lost any of its magic. The food, the people, the energy of the place had captivated Martin since the first time he set foot on the former British colony.

Though, to be perfectly honest, never in a million years would Martin have imagined he would be one day running away from local triad members after helping to blow up their main base of operation in the docks of Tsing Yi Island.

A bullet hit the wooden pier right next to where Martin's head was a second ago, splintering the wood. Martin had gotten tired of being left behind a few months ago and had been accompanying Sherlock on some of his investigations, but he now wished he hadn't talked Sherlock into letting him on this case.

Martin jumped onto the small speedboat docked at the pier and quickly untied it. Neither of them had expected to be discovered, and they surely had not planned to blow up anything or get into a shootout. Sherlock would have never let Martin come along otherwise.

"Come on!" he yelled at his brother, who was busy shooting back at their pursuers, not really hitting anyone but still slowing them down.

Martin started the engine of the boat, hoping that it would be fast enough to get them away from the triad members who seemed determined to kill them.

"Go!" Sherlock yelled at Martin as he ran down the pier towards the boat.

Martin started steering the boat so that it was facing outwards yet not moving too far away from the pier. Ten seconds later, he felt the boat shake as Sherlock jumped into it. "Go! Go!" Sherlock cried.

Martin cranked the engine to its top speed and steered them towards Chek Lap Kok Island and the airport.

Once they were in open waters with no sign of being pursued, Martin felt his legs giving up on him. If Sherlock hadn't been standing right behind him, Martin would've fallen over.

"You," he poked Sherlock in the shoulder. "Almost scared me to death! I thought you weren't going to make it!"

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he took over steering the speedboat towards their destination.

"At least tell me you got something useful out of the whole thing. Tell me I didn't just get shot at for nothing." Martin sank down into one of the two passenger seats on the boat, feeling as though he was either going to throw up or pass out from the adrenaline crash. Or quite possibly throw up and _then_ pass out.

"I've got what we need."

"Great. Good. And now that you've ruined Hong Kong for me, we can go."

* * *

New York was as much of a hustle and bustle as Hong Kong, though with less things blowing up in Sherlock's immediate surrounding. This trip was simply to confirm the information he had obtained in Hong Kong. Sherlock could no longer afford to be impatient, there was too much to lose if he wasn't careful and he had been through too much, come too close to losing it all.

The cafe was modern, located in the middle of downtown Manhattan, with a distinct European feel about it. Sherlock, with his smartly cut blonde hair, wire rimmed glasses, and dressed in stylish jeans with a simple gray blazer, fit right in.

He was sitting in a quiet spot against the wall near the middle of the cafe. It afforded him a view of the entire establishment without calling attention to himself. Though at 10:30am on a Wednesday, the cafe wasn't really that busy. But that suited Sherlock's purpose. He had a cappuccino and the New York Times crosswords before him. The crossword was ridiculously easy of course, but it helped him pass the time and made him looked innocuous.

Heads turned when she walked through the doors. She took off her sunglasses and scanned the room, spotting Sherlock when he gave her a small wave with the pen he was holding.

"Long time no see, darling." Irene Adler greeted him with a kiss to his cheek.

"Good to see you too, my dear." Sherlock replied with a flawless East Coast accent.

Despite her relaxed demure, the tension around Irene's eyes gave away her nervousness. She smiled at the waiter as she ordered her soy latte, sending the young man scampering off with her order.

"I hope he actually remembers your order." Sherlock quipped.

"He'll live." Irene waved her hand dismissively.

"I'm sure."

They chatted about nothing in particular until the waiter returned with Irene's drink. Sherlock smirked at the heart shaped foam art decorating the coffee. Irene merely scoped up a teaspoon of the milky foam and ate it.

"You're heading into dangerous territory, Sherlock."

"Since when did I ever let that stop me?" Sherlock took a sip from his now lukewarm cup of coffee. He preferred tea, but he had long ago learned that the Americans had somehow managed to mangle up the simple act of tea bag to hot water.

"True," Irene agreed. "But this is beyond even you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question.

"He has an extensive network and many connections, bigger than you can possibly imagine."

"I can imagine quite a lot, thank you. And I have connections of my own. I didn't come here for your advice, Irene. I came for confirmation that the information I possess is accurate."

Irene was silent as she took another sip of coffee. "You're going to get yourself killed," she finally said.

"You can't kill a dead man."

"Sherlock, this is dangerous. He is insane. There's no telling what he'll do if he finds out."

It was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.

"That's the whole point," Sherlock felt a smile threatening to appear. "I want him to find out."

* * *

It took them two days to get from New York to Zurich. Sherlock had to tell himself to be patient and that it wasn't Martin's fault that Phantom only had a limited range and could not make the trip in one go.

Martin had booked them into a semi-decent hotel in Zurich, and Sherlock had let Martin fuss over him without complaint. They ordered an early lunch from room service and Sherlock even ate half of the club sandwich without much protest. Martin let out a large yawn not long after they cleared away the food, and Sherlock had taken over all the available surfaces with this maps and case notes.

"Plans?" Martin asked, lying down on the bed closer to the window.

"I need to confirm the authenticity of this information," Sherlock replied.

"I thought that's what you did in New York?"

"That was only a partial confirmation." It was true. It wouldn't be confirmed until Sherlock saw Moriarty with his own eyes.

"Right then. You'll probably take a while." Martin dug out his diary and searched around for a pen. The sight of Martin writing reminded Sherlock so much of John that he had to look away.

Not long after, Martin had fallen asleep, the flights of the last two days catching up with him.

Sherlock didn't have time for sleep.

Turning on his laptop, he logged on to 'The Science of Deduction' for the first time in two years.

_Sunset, Reichenbach Falls. Base power station._

Sherlock looked at his brother's sleeping form. "I'm sorry, Martin. I have to do this alone."

Sherlock hit the post button.

* * *

The room was completely silent when Martin woke up. The sun was shining through the window and papers were scattered all over the table, just like it had been when Martin fell asleep. Sherlock's laptop was on the desk, sitting on a pile of paper. Sherlock himself was nowhere to be found.

"Sherlock?" Martin called out, but there was no reply. Martin was immediately alert. Sherlock had been strangely complacent over lunch. He didn't even protest when Martin made him eat his sandwich.

Martin checked the bathroom just to be sure, but it was empty. Fishing his mobile out from his jacket pocket, Martin dialed Sherlock's number. A familiar ring tone sounded from underneath a stack of paper on the table. Martin hung up, feeling a sense of dread creep up his spine.

Looking at the chaos on the desk, Martin realised that the laptop was only in sleep mode. He clicked on the mouse and Sherlock's website blinked into existence.

When he saw the message posted on the forum over two and a half hours ago, Martin felt as though the earth had fallen from underneath him.

"Sherlock, what have you done." Martin took a deep breath, trying desperately to claim his racing heart. He checked the time. "Sunset's another two hours away. Reichenbach Falls is about an hour and a half by car, I still have time."

Rushing out of the hotel, Martin flagged down a cab, and in his broken GCSE German, instructed the driver to go to Reichenbach Falls. Martin didn't have time to sort out the necessary paperwork to rent a car and this was exactly the type of situation when the unlimited credit card came in handy.

The cab ride was the longest 90 minutes of Martin's life. Once he arrived at Reichenbach Falls, Martin immediately headed towards the power station.

Fifteen minutes. How was he supposed to find Sherlock among all the tourists in that time?

"Think, Martin, think!" Martin murmured to himself. "Where would Sherlock go to meet a criminal mastermind he'd been chasing all over the globe for two years? Somewhere where no one's watching. Somewhere without all the tourists."

Martin grabbed a tourist map of the area from the information counter and started looking for the most likely location.

"Has to be somewhere dramatic, because this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about."

The map did not provide Martin with any answers, but when he looked up, he noticed a sign next to the path towards one of the main viewing platform, informing visitors of repairs being carried out on some of the other platforms.

Comparing the information on the notice with the map in his hands, Martin picked the most likely location: the viewing platform closest to the edge of the largest waterfall.

It took Martin more than ten minutes to make it all the way to the top. The roar of the waterfall got louder as he approached the platform. As he got closer, he could make out two figures struggling at the top.

A gunshot went off.

Martin started running.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't believe Moriarty was actually arrogant enough to have turned up alone. He looked completely out of place, dressed in his expensive tailor made suit. Half of the wooden platform was missing, the repair still in its early stages. The constant splashes of water form the waterfall made Sherlock felt as though he was standing in a light drizzle.

"The rumours of your demise have been greatly aggregated it seemed," Moriarty greeted Sherlock. "I was beginning to wonder who was responsible for all the mishaps over the last two years. I should've known it was you."

"Now you do," Sherlock had to shout in order to be heard above the sound of the waterfall.

"My, my. All this effort for little old me? I'm flattered." Moriarty smiled, as though genuinely flattered by Sherlock's attention. It made Sherlock feel sick. "I cried you know, when I heard that you died. Well, when I said cried, I meant shed a tear. It had been most fun, playing with you."

"Can't say I felt the same," Sherlock replied.

"Stop fooling yourself Sherlock and admit it. You had fun, too. It's not too late to join me."

Sherlock couldn't believe Moriarty was still going on about it. He wondered what he had done to make Moriarty think that Sherlock would ever join him. Was the man really that deluded or was there something about Sherlock that made him think that?

"But I'm afraid it is," Sherlock replied, pointing his gun at Moriarty. It all ends here, today.

"Can you pull the trigger, Sherlock?" Moriarty took a step forwards towards Sherlock. "Look me in the eyes and pull the trigger?" He took another step, bringing his own forehead merely inches from the barrel of the gun.

Sherlock released the safety on the gun, but in one swift move, Moriarty pushed Sherlock's arms upwards and the shot went wide. Sherlock attempted to wrestle back control of the gun, pushing against Moriarty in order to get some distance between them.

They wrestled for possession of the gun. Sherlock had a slight height advantage, but the rocky surface underneath his foot was muddy and slippery, making it hard to balance properly. A hard shove from Sherlock sent Moriarty tumbling backwards, but he reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sherlock's jacket, yanking Sherlock down with him. Sherlock's foot slipped and he lost his balance.

Moriarty's back connected with the wooden safety barrier and he flung out his free hand to catch his balance. Sherlock's foot slipped and he lost his balance, landing on top of Moriarty. Their combined weight was too much for the barrier; Sherlock heard the wood snap and felt himself going over the edge.

But something, someone had grabbed his left arm and he slammed painfully against the stone cliff face of the ledge. Moriarty lost his grip on Sherlock's jacket and Sherlock saw him reaching out to clutch desperately at something, anything before he disappeared from view.

Sherlock looked up to see Martin staring anxiously down at him.  
* * *

Martin felt as though his right shoulder was about to dislocate from its socket, and Sherlock's arm was already starting to slip from his grip. Martin was holding onto a rock right next to the ledge with his left hand. He didn't dare let it go, for fear of losing his balance on the slippery surface, and Sherlock's weight would then send them both over the edge.

"Grab something!" Martin yelled, desperately trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder. He can't let go. He just can't.

Sherlock was looking around frantically for anything on the surface of the rock he could get a hold of. He must have spotted something because Martin felt Sherlock shifting his weight and suddenly the pressure on his shoulder lightened slightly. Sherlock then shifted his grip on Martin's arm, securing their hold on each other.

"Pull me up!" Sherlock yelled. Martin could barely hear him through the roar of the waterfall around them.

Using the rock as leverage, Martin slowly moved backwards, pulling Sherlock up inch by inch. Once most of Sherlock's left arm cleared the edge, he managed to pull himself up and flopped down on the ground next to Martin.

"Is it over?" Martin asked, after finally calming his heart rate down to something resembling normal.

"Yes." Sherlock said.

Turning to look at each other, Martin heard a laugh of pure relief bubble from his lips. Soon, both brothers were laughing so hard that they could barely hear the sound of the waterfall around them.

* * *

Epilogue

The ear-piercing screech of the doorbell almost made Martin spill his tea.

"Oh, for god's sake, I thought they said they got it fixed!" Martin muttered to himself, quickly making his way to the intercom to stop whoever it was from pressing the doorbell again. "Hello?"

"It's Sherlock," came his brother's rather distorted voice from the small speaker.

"Sherlock? What are you doing here? Come on up!"

It had been almost four months since they came home, and except for a text saying 'Thank you' a week after their return, Martin had not seen or heard from Sherlock since. Mycroft had given him random updates through the months, so he knew Sherlock was all right and was actually working on rebuilding his relationships with the people in his life before he faked his own death. One of them being Doctor Watson.

Martin had been busy as well. He had stayed with Mycroft for a few weeks while he tried to sort out what he wanted to do. After being on the run with Sherlock for two years, everything had felt rather surreal.

Martin had been dumbfounded when Mycroft presented him with a deposit receipt for £130,000 two days after their return from Switzerland.

"Your pay for the last two years," Mycroft explained.

"What?"

"Market salary rate for an airline captain ranges from £60,000 per annum to £110,000 per annum depending on the airline and the seniority of the officer. This is your after tax pay for the last two years based on fair market rate."

"Mycroft, I can't take this. You've already said I can keep the plane, I just can't – "

"Martin, the plane, while in your name, isn't technically yours. You're holding it in trust for Her Majesty so that I may call on your service on her behalf whenever the need arise. You may use her as you see fit while she's not in Her Majesty's services, but that's it. This is legitimate pay for services rendered over the last two years. They are completely separate issues."

Three weeks after their return, Martin finally got his head together and made a trip back to Fitton. There was a cheerful reunion with Arthur, Carolyn and Douglas, and he finally met the infamous Doogie Howard, First Officer. Then came various meetings and telephone calls with Mycroft, and MJN Air and Pegasus Air went through a merger to become MJN Pegasus Air.

With the back pay, Martin was finally able to afford a decent flat of his own and things had more or less settled down.

"Martin," Sherlock greeted him with a grin when Martin opened the door to his flat.

"Sherlock, come in!" Martin smiled at his brother. "You look much better than the last time I saw you."

"Yeah, funny what regular meals and sleep can accomplish," came a voice from behind Sherlock.

"Oh," Sherlock stepped aside to let a shorter blonde haired man through the doorway. "Martin, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my half-brother, Martin."

Martin noticed that the grin had not left Sherlock's face even after the introductions were over and refreshments offered.

 _Stupidly in love_ , Martin thought as he observed from the kitchen the way Sherlock and John interacted, looking at the various model aeroplanes Martin had put in a display cabinet. Sherlock leaned in to say something to John, and Martin didn't fail to notice the protective hand resting on Sherlock's waist.

Two hours and three mugs of tea later, Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Martin and John alone.

"I still can't get over the fact that you're his half brother. You could be twins!"

Martin shrugged. "We both take after father. Sherlock's got Aunt Ana's dark hair, and since both father and my mum are ginger, I was pretty much doomed from the start."

John laughed. He was pleasant, and not quite what Martin was expecting. On the surface, John was the complete opposite of Victor, but after two hours in his company, Martin could see why Sherlock had done what he did to protect this man.

A small part of Martin's brain chided him for comparing John to Victor, but he couldn't help himself. John was fiercely protective of Sherlock; like Victor, he could put up with all of Sherlock's eccentricities yet didn't hesitate to put his foot down when things got out of hand. That John and Sherlock adored each other, well, that was obvious to anyone with eyes.

It was clear that John had questions about the two years they'd been away. Knowing Sherlock, he probably hadn't really told John anything except the bare minimum, all laid out in rational facts and logical conclusions. Emotionally idiotic, that was Sherlock, and the intervening years hadn't really changed him much. It was the reason why he didn't even knew he was in love with John until a mad man strapped a bomb to his chest.

"Excuse me a moment," Martin said, suddenly coming to a decision over a dilemma he hadn't even known he was contemplating.

A couple minutes later, Martin emerged from his bedroom and handed over his diary to John.

"I kept a record, a diary really, from our time away," Martin explained. "I want you to have it."

"Martin – "

"John, take it. I know you've been wanting to ask me what happened during that time we were away. Most of it is in there. It's mostly where we've been, the things Sherlock deduced, which country I should try to avoid flying to in the future because we blew something up or caused a major uprising or something equally crazy. Just some of my notes and observations. I didn't write down anything that would betray Sherlock's confidence in me, so don't worry about reading something you shouldn't."

John looked down at the black leather diary in his hands, then up at Martin again. "Thank you."

"You and I both know Sherlock has a serious case of emotional idiocy. This is my way of helping him."

The noise of the flushing toilet alerted them to Sherlock's imminent return.

"You know, he probably did that on purpose." John said. "Going to the loo and letting us have a moment."

"I wouldn't put it past him." Martin smiled. "And yet, he's always accusing Mycroft of being manipulative."

John grinned. "I have to remember to bring that up the next time he's ranting about Mycroft."

"What about Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing." Martin and John chorused, sharing a conspiratory glance.

"If the both of you are done, I just got a text from Lestrade."

"Murder?" Martin saw the way John's eyes lit up at the prospect of a case.

"Of course," Sherlock replied with a pleased smile.

 _Yep, definitely a match for Sherlock,_ he thought, glad that his brother had finally found happiness.

* * *

From the diary of Captain Martin Aldrich Holmes-Crieff:

_...I've never been to Washington DC before. Would love to be able to come back one day and do a proper visit since all I've been doing for the last three days was worrying about Sherlock. That's not a good way to enjoy the sights. He's disappeared with a promise to text every few hours, saying that this was something he had to do alone. I'm getting sick of that excuse. When he comes back, and I mean when, not if, he will be filling me in even if I have to pull out the big guns and ring Mycroft...._

 

The End


End file.
